


Like Morning

by Konstantya



Series: The Edelweiss Arc [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Post-World War I, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13737537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: Until 1919, it was Austria she turned to.





	Like Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net and LJ) on May 18, 2010. Cross-posted here on February 19, 2018.
> 
> A Chinese translation of this fic can be found [here](http://aphsuez.lofter.com/post/1d5af8b0_bf83713).
> 
> Time period: Mid-1919.

 

Of all the things she might expect, his answering his own door is not one of them. This is Austria, after all. Answering the door is the work of a butler. But sure enough, the country himself stands in front of her.

Well, sort of. He holds the door open with one hand. The other is gripped around the handle of a cane.

"Liechtenstein," he says, simply, almost as if he's surprised.

Belatedly, she quickly bobs into a curtsey, swallowing nervously. "Mr. Austria," she says in greeting.

He blinks at her, and after a brief moment clears his throat, comes to his senses, and steps to the side. "Please, come in."

'Rusty' is a word that comes to her mind. His manners seem rusty for some reason.

Liechtenstein obliges, trying to make her steps as light and careful as she can, as if it will make her less obtrusive. There is a pungency to his house. Ink and coffee and cigarette smoke. It is different than she remembers.

Many things are different, now.

Austria closes the door. He gestures down the hall, to his front parlor, and she follows.

The cane is not for show. He limps with his left leg. Liechtenstein swallows, painfully aware that her throat is growing sorer every day.

"A-are you still recovering from a wound?" she asks tentatively. The war is a subject she doesn't like to tread upon for the sake of those who were involved, but to not ask would be inconsiderate.

A huff escapes him, but it is more weary than irritated. "Not from a wound, I'm afraid," he admits. "And I wouldn't exactly call it 'recovering.' "

 _Oh._ Liechtenstein's lips press together carefully. She catches her hands surreptitiously fidgeting in her skirt folds. They are small and cold, and she is worried.

Once in the parlor, Liechtenstein takes a self-conscious seat in an upholstered chair. Austria sits in its mate. She does not miss his slight wince of pain as he lowers himself into it, nor his breath of relief upon settling himself.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cigarette case—silver and engraved and a relic from better times, Liechtenstein suspects. Perhaps it had been a gift from some statesman, a decade or two ago, and he'd never had a use for it until now. Austria opens it and is about to remove a cigarette when he suddenly stops, affronted by his own lack of manners.

"I'm sorry." He's quick to apologize, and sincere about it. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Oh," she says, shaking her head just as quickly. "No."

He plucks one out, pale fingers against pale paper. Closes the case and tucks it back in his jacket. "I can't say I often have to worry if it offends someone," he explains, flicking a matching lighter to life, then snapping it shut.

Liechtenstein smiles slightly, apologetically, not sure what to say to that. Or even if there _is_ something to say to that.

Her throat itches. It has nothing to do with the smoke, she knows.

Austria inhales once, then turns his attention to his guest. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Um…yes?" She shrugs apologetically. It is polite to accept, and Austria is all manners, besides. Even now, suffering the great losses from the Great War, he will put formalities first.

Perhaps, she thinks briefly, it is not so much falling back on habit so much as clinging to it.

"Let me ring the bell," he says. "I'll see if we can scrounge up some tea. Provided the remaining servants haven't abandoned me as well," he adds, not quite humorously, flicking his ash into a nearby tray. It's a bright, new cynicism dressed in tired, aristocratic clothing, and Liechtenstein hastily gestures with her hands and leaps to her feet before he can laboriously pull himself to his.

"No, no—I'll go get it," she offers, not wanting to be a burden anymore than she has to be. "I remember where everything is." Austria stares at her with a look she can't place. It seems at once both panicked and grateful. And then he breathes, and relaxes back into his weariness.

"You might have to dig," he says at length, dropping his gaze from her. "I've had to sell most of the china."

Liechtenstein nods and tightly smiles through her worry. "I'll manage," she says. She fears it is a lie.

His estate was built to house a number of people—nations, humans, servants and guests of either sort—and the emptiness of it now is almost threatening. Certainly depressing. What few servants he has left must be spread _very_ thinly, for she doesn't even see a trace of one on her way to the kitchens. Liechtenstein coughs hoarsely, and it echoes desolately.

Austria was right. She _does_ have to dig. His porcelain is all but gone, only a handful of plain white cups and saucers remaining. His silverware replaced with cheaper, more utilitarian stainless steel. Liechtenstein feels as if something is inherently wrong with the universe. Even more so than when it came out that England and France were allies.

She can't find a serving tray, and wonders if those have been sold as well. They were silver, after all. Liechtenstein considers leaving right then and there. She suspected it was a mistake from the start to come, but who else would she turn to? Austria has helped her for decades, centuries even. Never before has he been unable to.

But then, never before has the world been so devastated by a single war.

Liechtenstein swallows. Austria taught her good manners. Leaving now, especially without saying good-bye, would be rude. She will drink her tea, play out the visit, and go. Two saucers, two hands; she does not need a tray.

"Thank you," Austria murmurs when she returns. He does not meet her eyes as he accepts the tea. Liechtenstein sits back down with her own cup.

They drink. Liechtenstein discreetly take large sips so she will finish soon. Austria is smoking a second cigarette.

"You came here for help," he says.

Liechtenstein freezes, tea-cup at her lips, her taste for it suddenly fleeing. Silently, cautiously, she sets it on the saucer in her lap. It was not a question, and she does not respond. The answer is obvious.

"There's a hole in your shoe," Austria observes. Desolately, she thinks. The fact that he can't afford to give aid is even more obvious.

Nations are certainly less mortal than the humans they were born from, but certainly not _im_ mortal by any means. They can die, just like anything. _Will_ die, just like anything. Some day, some way. Liechtenstein grips her hands tensely around the plain porcelain and wants to tuck her feet out of sight. Austria's cane glares into her peripheral vision.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

Liechtenstein feels herself nod, just barely.

She should leave. It would be easier on the both of them. She should leave.

Austria absently stubs his cigarette out and absently reaches for another. But then stops. "Actually…" he says, removing his hand from his jacket, quietly clearing his throat, "…I might have something for you, after all."

Liechtenstein looks up, daring to hope. Austria looks at the floor, distant.

"It's not much, I'm afraid," he admits, and there is something in his voice she can't read.

With a little trouble, he pulls himself to his feet. "Upstairs," he says, and gestures toward the main hall. Liechtenstein sets her forgotten tea down, rises, and follows.

The journey to the second floor takes longer than it perhaps should. It is difficult to navigate stairs with a limp, and near the top, Austria stumbles, the exertion taking its toll on his legs. Liechtenstein grabs his arm, and he leans into her, tiny nation that she is in comparison, catching his breath. Liechtenstein feels the full weight of that action—beyond just that of his frame.

"I'm sorry," Austria says again, hoarsely.

Liechtenstein nods, helping him steady himself. "Just be careful. It's a long way back down."

"I knew I should have had elevators installed when I had the chance." The observation is a little self-deprecating and a lot regretful.

They go down the hall, toward his bedroom, but stop at the door before it. Hungary's dressing room—or _former_ dressing room, as the case may be.

They are separated now, she knows. Rumors are that a formal divorce is pending. The war is essentially over, but official treaties have yet to be signed.

Liechtenstein has to wonder why he would bring her _here,_ of all places.

The wallpaper, a pastel damask—green and ivory and distinctly feminine—is in the process of being stripped. There are a couple music stands. A small center table. A bookshelf with only a handful of books. A navy blue chair that doesn't match. Haphazard attempts to fill up a space. She remembers that the room was once his study, before he married. Perhaps he is trying to make it so, again.

There is a large, sheet-covered piece of furniture—a wardrobe, she assumes. Austria goes to a trunk behind it and gestures oddly. "I don't…" he begins. "It might not be very useful, but…"

Liechtenstein nods, thinking she knows what he means to say, and kneels down to open it.

Riding boots, a shawl, drop-pearl earrings and dancing slippers. A pair of trousers, a hairbrush, an embroidered apron. The realization dawns on her with a measure of embarrassment, and Liechtenstein's mouth opens to object. "But these are Hunga—"

"You'd be doing me a favor," he interrupts sharply. But then his voice softens. "Really."

Her mouth is still open, her eyes wide, and she shakes her head. "But I can't take…"

"Please." He is almost begging now, looking anywhere but at the trunk, and any more of her protests die in her throat.

They are things he can't bear to keep, yet can't bear to throw out. Really, she _would_ be doing him a favor. And she _needs_ new shoes. It doesn't matter if the boots are a little too big; she can stuff the toes if need be. Perhaps she could sell the jewelry. The shawl could come in handy, come the winter. It's not much, but it's something. Not nearly enough, but something.

She's grateful, despite everything.

Liechtenstein tucks the shoes, and slippers, and baubles, and anything else that might be of some use into the shawl and wraps it up. She does him the favor of closing the trunk, and stands.

"I'm sorry that's all I can give you," Austria says, voice quiet and unreadable. He doesn't look at her, and Liechtenstein wonders if, in that instant, he's talking to her at all.

She clutches the bundle awkwardly, trying—and failing—to hide it in her arms. The thoughts that have been plaguing her ever since her arrival need to be said, and now is as bad a time as any. Liechtenstein swallows.

"I…I think it would be best if…we parted ways," she says quietly. Austria blinks. Almost imperceptibly, his hand tightens around his cane handle. "We… You can't afford it, and I'm…not a big nation," she goes on, ducking her head momentarily. "I can't afford to take the kind of risks others can." She looks back up, hoping she hasn't offended him.

For an excruciating moment, there is silence. But then, Austria exhales. "Of course," he finally says, resigned, dropping his gaze from her once again. "I couldn't ask you to do otherwise, considering the states we're in."

He couldn't ask her to stay—but would he begrudge her for leaving? The thought flashes through her head briefly, curiously. She wonders about Hungary, but has enough tact to not ask.

"I'll see you out," he murmurs, and perhaps they both know that is a lie. In reality, it is _she_ who sees him _down_.

At the door, Austria holds out his hand. It is a surprisingly casual gesture, especially from him; there is something modern yet something mournful to it. Liechtenstein raises her own hand and they clasp.

"Thank you." She is not sure if such words are truly appropriate, but she will say them nonetheless.

Austria smiles apologetically. The expression is so weighed down with worry, it is almost a grimace. Liechtenstein smiles apologetically back. It is at once brave and tremulous.

He grips her fingers one last time. His skin is dry, she notices. Perhaps he has been doing his own dishes, or washing his own laundry. "Take care," he tells her, and releases her hand.

She nods. "You too." He nods back.

They do not say good-bye. There have been too many of those, already. And they would like to pretend that they will yet live to once again say hello.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liechtenstein actually had very close ties with Austria (and consequently Austria-Hungary) until the end of WWI. Come 1919, Austria was in a Very Bad Place economically-speaking, and Liechtenstein basically said, "Um, yeah, so, uh…you're kind of bringing me down, and I can't afford it, so, um…bye." Later that year she entered into a customs and monetary union with Switzerland, and the rest, as they say, is history.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: I have been dying to write some Liechtenstein/Austria interaction. Hell, I've just been dying for Liechtenstein/Austria interaction period, whether from me or not. So: mission accomplished. (In a way that ended up far more depressing than I intended, but hey, WWI wasn't exactly cheery.)


End file.
